


We Provide Leverage

by kt_teller



Category: Bellarke - Fandom, Leverage, The 100
Genre: Bellamy Blake - Freeform, Bellarke, Clarke Griffin - Freeform, Clarktavia - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Leverage AU, The 100 - Freeform, leverage - Freeform, octavia blake - Freeform, thieves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 08:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4515324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kt_teller/pseuds/kt_teller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I saw a Leverage AU post for The 100 with Bellamy as the leader, and Clarke as the grifter. As two of my main loves combined, I had to write a few pieces for it. There will be occasional mentions of Octavia as a hitter, Raven as a thief, and Monty as a hacker. I honestly have no idea how to tag this- I just wanted some place to store my Bellamy/Clarke work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intro

She smelled of manufactured goods—utterly fake.

Everyone held that air about them in this room, though- at least to Bellamy. They were all recycled white collars; looking to one up the other as they stood upon the necks of the lower class. His people continued to suffer under the weight of the upper classmen’s heels. He despised the hierarchy, even if he contributed to its function by continuing to work here.

This blonde was nothing more than a pretty accessory for the machine— _royalty they called her_. Mr. Addams was introducing them; seeing as some of the girl’s family’s most prestigious pieces were scattered across tonight’s event. Of course she’d be here watching them over; even if she didn’t care about the well-being of the art. Her family would come out on top, no matter what happened to the collection. Bellamy was paid to give a shit—even when the owners wouldn’t. Insurance fraud was a trend these days; having a piece go missing would make everyone happy—except for the insurers having to back the payout.

“Bellamy, this is the one they’ve all been  **r a v i n g** about this evening—duchess Elise of Scotland.”

She stuck her hand out; expectantly, even in its delicacy. Clarke’s eyes met him, fighting the internal urge to glare at him. He was smug; she could see it in the disdain his eyes held. Her alias prevented her from stepping out of line to tear him down; a vicious string of words dancing along her tongue. Belittling her would only make  **him** look bad; the role she’d stepped into forced people to show her respect.

Even when they didn’t want to.

The boy tilted his head down, arrogant eyes still locked upon her. The smirk that upturned on hips lips nauseated her; she wanted to  **slap** him. Instead, she lifted her hand with his- letting his kiss fall upon it. Clarke could see how he hated the action; flames of victory licked against her ribs.

“ ** _Princess_** —it’s an honor.”

His boss seemed pleased with Bellamy’s appearance of good manners. He was full of shit; just like her. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze in reply, teeth cracking as she feigned a sincere smile. The blonde let her eyes flick to the floor; acting as if she was blushing from embarrassment— **her cheeks never changed color**. She didn’t miss a beat before one-upping him.

“ **Duchess** —and the honor is mine, Mr. Blake.”

The two stared off, chins squared in preparation for battle—the smiles on their faces contradicting the wars raging on beneath. Clarke saw him as the enemy; the man who looked to keep her from the painting she strove for tonight. The antiquity belonged to Sterling Ward; one of the men who’d framed her father. His artwork would look  _fabulous_ in her bathroom; traces of filth collecting along the priceless design for a number of years.

If only Bellamy wasn’t here to get in the way.

Addams was still rattling off how this pair might know each other—listing off people both had knowingly come into contact with during the last two years. He was trying to forge a connection; pawning off the girl so he could attend to other guests. Clarke wanted to rid the both of them—she had people to see, art to steal.

She broke through the elderly man’s dialogue, a gentle hand resting upon his arm. She’d noticed his escort of the evening, too young to be his daughter, had touched him similarly—he’d liked it just as much when Clarke did it. “I do apologize, but I have just been  _dying_ to talk to the owner of that Caravaggio. Every piece I’ve seen in books has been long since ruined or stolen.” Sorrow tainted her eyes; as if she wasn’t planning on doing the same thing.

Let the bitch go, Bellamy thought.

He had more pressing matters to deal with. Clarke lifted a hand to wave goodbye, a bright smile evident. “It was a pleasure, Bellamy—may we meet again.” The boy nodded in agreement before they parted ways. The next time he’d see her would be one year later; him tracking her  _and the piece she’d stolen the night they met_.


	2. You Can Do This.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a year and a half after their meeting. She's a part of his team now, working beside one another instead of against. The art piece they're planning on stealing needs a replica, which she's attempting to paint. After eight hours of struggling, it seems Bellamy is the only one who understands where she's finding fault.

They were running out of time; he needed to go check on her.

All Clarke had requested was eight hours of silence; she could complete the job in the time provided if Bellamy just kept everyone out. He’d given a short order—shoving his Visa card in their direction, before telling them to go. He’d stayed behind, not caring to dabble in whatever scheme they came up with in the name of adventure. A drink had been in hand for almost two hours now—whiskey on the rocks. The ice had long since melted, leaving the trace of a dewey palm in the hand that he’d been gripping with. He wouldn’t drink, not today; but eventually, that poured drink would find its way tilted back.

It was only a matter of  **when**.

He shut off the monitor that Monty had set up for him—leaving the case work and plans behind as he eased down the hall. He’d opened the door before she heard him, catching a sight at the mess Clarke had created throughout the room. The stool she sat upon was perched in front of a raised canvas, half complete as her hand sat idle.

“Dammit.”

She’s running paint stained fingers through blonde waves, frustration evident as her leg bounces rhythmically. Discarded works of art are scattered within throwing distance; a frustrated sigh is heavy on her lips. He didn’t ask how it was going in here—the scene was too apparent already. Clarke hears his footsteps before he makes his presence known, turning with defeat distorting her features.

“The coloring is right, it all  **looks** right.”

“But it feels wrong.”

“ _Yes—exactly._ ” She lights up at his completion, giving her the answer she’d been searching for throughout her entire day. Clarke turns to look back at the art; feeling his hands fall onto each of her shoulders as he hovers over her. He studies the work before him, looking for answers to provide her. Where is she going wrong?

What can he do to fix it?

“You’re nervous.” He sees the inconsistency in her brush strokes, the doubt she holds in the brush. Even with her exquisite talents, she’s still unsure of herself. Bellamy begins a gentle massage on her shoulders, working out the tensions in her neck as she speaks. “Loosen up. You need to find the same confidence that the artist had. He didn’t know where the stroke was going to end, and he didn’t  **care**. The paint was speaking for him; he didn’t need to look at a cheat sheet to figure out the technicalities behind it.”

“What’s that even mean, Bell? I have to  _look_ at the other piece, that’s what copyi—“

“You’re not copying, you’re recreating.”

“ _Recreating_ —I’m still making an exact replica of a piece that’s not  **mine**. I’m trying my best here.”

He paused as he tried to find a way to reframe his words. Clarke’s leg is still tapping uneasily as the pair stares at the piece of work. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t her best. He could recall a replica he’d come across two years back—not knowing at the time it was in fact,  **a replica**. Her work had been flawless, had even fooled the deceased artist’s daughter…. Until the original was spotted months later in Brazil.

“Don’t look at the painting anymore.” She started to protest; he shut her down before continuing. “No, you’ve looked at this dozens of times today. **Stop**. Look nowhere else but your canvas, and think about what the artist felt when  _he_ was painting it. You’re a grifter. You have a gift of getting inside of people’s heads; knowing all of the  **bullshit** that’s going on up there. All you have to do is get in his head, Clarke. You can do this.”

His hands stayed on her shoulders for a moment longer; the girl saying nothing in reply as she continued to stare at the canvas. As he felt her arm move, he lifted up—taking backwards steps as she lifted the brush up once more.

A clean blue swipe is brought to life; not a trace of hesitation in its closing.

**She did it**.


	3. We Need A Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy and Clarke rarely realize that they don't have to handle their struggles alone. With Raven, Octavia, and Monty all at their disposable, it's about damn time the five start working as a team.

He was sitting at the table when she walked in; eyes glued to pages before him. Bellamy was bordering on exhaustion, words blurring as he tried to find more depth behind them. He studied the mark, he  **knew** the mark—but he couldn’t figure out  _how to con_ the man.

Before Bellamy —unwillingly—left his previous employer, people wondered how someone of such a young age could be  **so good** at his job. He was young, a bit of an ass—and yet even as he had problems making friendly with his elderly coworkers, he still got the job done. The Blake boy had a method; one that he didn’t care to hand out to the rest of them.  _You can only rob a thief, if you think like them_. He would enter the mind of a criminal; stalking their trail until he went in for the kill.

It wasn’t as if he was an  **actual** thief; he’d only been stealing what legally belonged to them.

An open palm struck the table, an enraged sound curling out of him. Bellamy hit the table two more times before swiping the entirety of papers onto the floor. He was lost—he needed guidance on which road to take them down. The team was running out of time; having only two days before their target left the country.

She came around the corner at the sound of his frustration, silent steps carrying her across the table from him. As he looked up at her, she could see the baggage hanging heavy beneath his eyes—darkening from the last time she’d checked on him. Bellamy’s jaw clenched as she searched his gaze; finding nothing but desperation and exhaustion. He needed help, she could feel it. The pair said nothing to one another as she reached down to pick up the papers, Bellamy turning away in shame as she did. There was evidence of his outburst—he didn’t like her having documented proof of his downfalls.

If she was judging, she didn’t seem to say anything. He felt gratitude, not showing it with anything other than a flat grin.  **She never saw it**. Lifting the disheveled papers onto the table, she sat before him- sorting through the mess to reorganize. She needed order if she were to help—her clarification came from seeing  **all** of the pieces.  

This was more complicated than the ol’ razzle dazzle—there were four new components to the heist. They could do bigger, better; yet even as she saw the pieces, she couldn’t figure out how to orchestrate them. Her lips pursed as she re-read everything; the words coming together with the same incompleteness they had before. They were missing something; but she couldn’t figure out what.

Bellamy watched her take the same position he had minutes before; hunched over this impossible problem. They were supposed to have a simple con; in and out—leave the mark broken and alone. Yet there were complications; throwing all backup plans out the window. The frustration was evident in her eyebrows, synched together as if squeezing them hard enough would help her find their solution.

**It didn’t**.

The two said nothing as her head rested on her hand; supporting the weight as she continued to read. “Playing the  _toddler son_ card isn’t an option.” She said it more to herself than to Bellamy; he already  **knew** this; they tried to save the innocent; not use them as bait. He fingers at the pile of papers she has under her elbows, the girl’s body lifting slightly to give him leverage. Bellamy pulls out the sheet directly behind hers, diving back into work alongside her.

“Did you talk to them?”

She nods, even though he’s not looking to her for acknowledgment. “They need  **you** in there, Bell. They didn’t come here because of me. This whole operation—it’s inspired by you. They believe in what you want to do here.”

Bellamy’s head still hangs in direction of the desk, his gaze flicking up to her as he processes her words. His jaw clenches instinctively once more, as his eyes flick towards the floor. Her words have stirred an embarrassment in him; even if it’s precisely what he needed to hear.

“They don’t need me—they  **need a fucking _plan_**.”

As if the words registered something within  **b o t h** people, their eyes look up and meet; a glimmer of light igniting in Clarke’s. Their heads turn towards the door, as if waiting for comedic timing to bring the other three into the room with them. Since no one magically appeared, Bellamy stood- assisting Clarke in grabbing the scattered files they’d been pouring over.

The pair walked side by side into the room where the remaining three sat on the couch—appearing to fight over what would be watched on the television. While both Clarke and Bellamy habitually internalized their problems, no one ever said they had to do this alone.

Bellamy kicked the remote up and out of Monty’s hands; handing it over for Clarke to stick in the hem of her jeans after clicking it off. The leader’s hands hung on his hips as he looked them over, the blonde by his side as he started. “We need a plan.”

Clarke picked up where he ended. “We have three other geniuses in the room, and we weren’t even using it to our advantage.”

None of them were alone now—these five were a team.

It’s about time they acted as such.


	4. You're Blushing- How Adorable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a piece for Clarke and Octavia-- the underrated ship of the show. My sweet angels, grifter Clarke and trained assassin Octavia as Clarke works one of the targets. Even under O's supervision, the two still end up having a hint of fun.

The party continued to roll on, drinks emptying as laughs continued to boom around them. The team was supposed to be working, but even as she tried to focus on the target at hand, she simply couldn’t grasp onto her character. 

The taste of  _the real world_  was on her lips, the idea of the of a certain brunette dressed as a black tie waitress was all she could see. As Clarke half-heartedly charmed the aging man, eyes continued to wander towards the girl carrying around a tray of champagne. Octavia’s gaze rarely left her, giving the blonde a sense of security she’d grown far too accustomed to. She was safe; something she’d never felt so strongly before.

As Octavia let a snide joke slip into Clarke’s ear piece, Clarke let out an unexpected crack of a laugh– startling her companion of the evening. The blonde quickly recovered, letting her touch glide down his arm in assurance. 

She was only laughing because he was  _so charming_ – his arrogance fueled her pitch easily. 

Clarke emptied the champagne glass in hand quickly, using the absence as an excuse to make a momentary escape. As she ushered herself away towards the bar, she let a low scolding slip from her lips. It might have almost sounded serious, if her lips weren’t fighting the urge to upturn in a grin. 

“Bell’s going to explode if you keep this up– you’re going to make me blow my cover.”  


_“Fuck my brother_.”

An ethereal chuckle rolled out at this, her eyes scanning the room for Octavia as she waited for the refill. For the first time in the entirety of the evening, she couldn’t find her. The blonde’s heart began to race, three horror scenarios flashing instantly in her head. Where did  _she_ go?

As the grifter was taking slow steps back to the target, eyes wide in her search for Octavia, she was suddenly being jerked by the arm into an empty room. With a splash of champagne hitting marbled floors, Clarke almost let out a scream at the sudden abduction– a mouth smashed against gloss covered lips preventing her from this. 

Then she saw who was before her– a devious smirk on her captor’s face.

Octavia knew Clarke was a bit of a screamer. 

As the palm was lifted from her lips, a smile took its place– a breathless chuckle accompanying the rapid beat of her heart. Her body sunk into the wall behind her, head lifting back to expose her heaving chest. “You  _scared_ me– I could have killed you.”

The  _trained assassin_ let out her own laugh at this now, the absurdity unable to be masked by humor. “Right– in that little dress with your manicured nails.” She gave Clarke the same smirk Bellamy would. They swore to being nothing alike, but it was obvious in the minuscule details.

The blonde’s cheeks turned pink at the jab, eyes flicking down as the woman was still inches from her. She didn’t have a clear rebuttal– her eyes on flicking up in agitation as the breath stifled itself in her throat.

“Aw, you’re blushing– how adorable.”

Clarke’s cheeks stung even further at Octavia’s observation– suddenly feeling the need to escape the spotlight. She much preferred when eyes that didn’t know her were lingering. It was much easier on the ego. “I need to get back to work– quit the jokes, you’re too distracting.”

As the grifter eased out from Octavia, she failed to mention that her humor wasn’t the only thing distracting about her teammate this evening.  


End file.
